


in with the beyond

by decidueye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disability, M/M, Mushishi AU, Other, Pining, a lot of pining, no knowledge of mushishi required though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12737595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidueye/pseuds/decidueye
Summary: Koutarou lives a dull life, trapped in his home on a hill and longing for something more. He lives for Akaashi’s annual visits and the stories they bring of their dealings with the supernatural, but nothing this good can exist without change.





	in with the beyond

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a rough couple of weeks, and i ended up powering through this AU i've had in my head for a while as a way of coping and processing my feelings. i hope it brings you as much peace as it brought me. thanks to kep and stei for the beta.

When Koutarou first finds out about the mushi inside his leg, he cries for days. Before then, he had been a restless, angry child, lashing out at his teachers whenever they tried to restrain him from strenuous activity, forced instead to sit inside and practise kanji, his wrist tiring of the repetitive movements.

“It’s not fair!” Koutarou would scream, using his crutches as weapons when his legs gave out beneath him. “Why can’t I play with the others? Why am I the only one in pain?”

No one on the estate has much sympathy for him, and the decision is made to explain the origin of his disability not because he is ready, but because they hope that placing the burden of responsibility on his shoulders might bring them some peace. Koutarou is young, but he is far from naive, and he knows that when Konoha tells him that they’ve decided he’s old enough to hear the truth that he’s being condescended to. He listens, if only because Konoha is his age and  one of the few people that has treated him with respect. He’s wanted to know about his leg for as long as he can remember - it controls so much of his life, after all - and when he’s finally told, his heart breaks.

There are mushi - supernatural organisms - hosted within his bloodline. They feed on his leg in order to thrive, as they fed on both of his mother’s legs, and as they will on one of his descendants. He’s spent his childhood being taught how to write so that he can transfer the ink that stains his blood onto paper, chronicling the tales of defeated mushi until they recede from his body.

“...will it hurt?” Koutarou asks quietly. He is staring at the floor, and his voice is quieter than it has ever been before. Konoha has given him a lot of information to process.

“A great deal,” Konoha tells him, and it’s clear from the grimace that crosses his features that it gives him no pleasure to say so. “The pain will mean that you’re winning; you’ll experience what they do as they exit your body.”

Koutarou is silent for a long time. He traces shapes on the floorboards with his fingertips - kanji, drilled into him so vehemently that he forms the strokes even when he isn’t concentrating. His lip wobbles, and Konoha’s stance widens as he braces himself for another of Koutarou’s tantrums.

“I have to kill them in order to live, don’t I?” Koutarou looks up sharply when he speaks, face screwed up in anguish and eyes wet. “It’s going to hurt because they’re hurting...they only want to live, but so do I!”

Konoha has no time to react as Koutarou flings himself onto the floor, sobs racking through his whole body, his legs splayed uselessly behind him. When Koutarou rejects Konoha’s touch, swiping at the hand that reaches for his back, Konoha leaves, and Koutarou remains alone for three days. His meals are brought to him by a cousin he’s never seen before, and he eats them between hiccuping breaths, only to cry again once he is finished.

When he has cried for both himself and the mushi, and his eyes burn with the effort of producing more tears, Konoha comes back. He stands in the doorway, chewing on his lip and waiting for Koutarou to acknowledge him. He’s the only person close to Koutarou’s age that his teachers will let him talk to, and Koutarou is grateful for his presence, even if it’s coerced. Koutarou wipes his eyes, wincing at the friction of his sleeve on the tender skin.

"I'm going to seal them away, and then I'm going to walk again."

The pained grimace on Konoha's face speaks volumes. "Bokuto...it's unlikely that you'll seal away enough mushi to regain function in your leg before your time is up. It's taken centuries to make them retreat as far as they have..."

"Then I'll just have to better than everyone else was, won't I? I want to start now, Konoha; teach me how to write them away."

Konoha sighs, his exasperation muffled by a smile. Koutarou knows that it won't be that simple, but the answer is right for both of them, because it gives them hope.

From then on, Koutarou writes more diligently than anyone believed him to be capable of, mastering the techniques of sealing mushi into scrolls within the year. His family had been collecting the tales of mushishi - travellers who dealt with the chaos caused by mushi - since his birth, but he transcribes them all before he reaches his twentieth birthday. The darkness on his leg recedes only a centimeter, and Koutarou scatters paper throughout his study, the pain of writing day after day and fighting the mushi inside him wracking through his body.

Still, he asks for more, and his teachers send out an open call for mushshi to tell their stories when they're in the area, in exchange for hospitality and gold.

Mushishi, as Koutarou finds out, are eager to brag about their victories, and he is supplied with a steady stream of visitors. At first, Koutarou is grateful for the company, drinking up tales from a world he has never been able to see like he has been without water his whole life, but he is quickly disillusioned.

The mushishi from outside the family are no different from those within it. Mushi are pests to them, and the only stories they bring Koutarou are ones of death.

"Is there a time when you didn't kill the mushi?" Koutarou asks once after a long day of writing, his throat tight and knees aching from the pressure of kneeling. The mushi - Koutarou has forgotten his name, or perhaps he didn't introduce himself - looks startled, adjusting his hakama and clearing his throat.

"Those are not tales of victory," he responds, his mouth a thin line. "Mushi only seek to destroy; where they live, humans suffer."

Koutarou droops. To him, it does not seem like the mushi are seeking to destroy anything - destruction is just a consequence of their living. It's hardly any more malicious than what the mushishi are doing: killing mushi so that humans might flourish.

Koutarou's leg burns, the mushi inside him begging him to stop, to let them live one more day. He writes until the pain has reached his spine and he cannot stop his hand from shaking, when Konoha places a hand on his shoulder and asks him to stop.

It continues like this for years, and the joy and vivacity from Koutarou's youth dissipates with every story. He no longer tries to walk without his crutches, gripping them as one would a lifeline even when sitting. It doesn't concern his teachers - they could care less about him as long as he's writing - but Konoha has always been his friend more than his guardian, and he asks him when they're both in the garden, on one of the rare occasions Koutarou is allowed outside.

"I kinda miss the annoying Bokuto," Konoha says with a wry grin. Koutarou stares at him, but Konoha doesn't meet his gaze, instead looking out over the hill the Bokuto residence is built on. "Not much, but a little. Don't tell me you've grown up on me? You're only twenty-two, jackass."   
Koutarou laughs, and it isn't the restrained exhale that his laugh has been reduced to, but a loud bark that neither he nor Konoha have heard since Koutarou's mid teens. It makes Konoha jump, and Koutarou laughs harder.

"Sorry," Koutarou says, "I'll try to be less of a jackass...and more annoying."

Konoha ruffles the back of his hair until Koutarou slaps his hand away. "That's more like it," he says, bumping into Koutarou's side. "Seriously, though, what's happened?"

It takes a moment for Koutarou to decide whether or not he wants to respond. Konoha is the only person who has reached out to him; if he can't be trusted, then Koutarou must be far too lonely for him to bear.

"You've seen it," he says after a moment, gaze turning towards the horizon. There are fields as far as the eye can see, and a village at the bottom of the hill that Koutarou has never been able to visit. The children used to come and play here, but they aren't allowed to anymore. Everyone Koutarou had watched out of the window must be married by now, perhaps with children of their own. Perhaps it's them that forbid people from travelling up the hill - they remember the boy in the wheelchair and they are afraid of what he's become. "How I spend my days...you don't sit with me every day, but it's all I hear. Stories about death...and pain."

"The mushishi save people - sometimes whole towns..." Konoha starts, and Koutarou shakes his head.

"They kill mushi to do it." Even saying the words out loud causes pain - in Koutarou's heart as much as his leg. "Countless mushi suffer because we want to be more comfortable. I don't kill mushi, but I cause them pain when I seal them in the scrolls. Just because I want to walk again."   
Koutarou pulls up fistfuls of grass, throwing them out into the wind, and Konoha sighs.

"You don't have to push yourself so hard..."

"I do, though!" Koutarou says. His eyes are burning when he looks back at Konoha, and he knows they're wet but hopes that Konoha won't acknowledge it. "I do, because otherwise we're all suffering for nothing."

"Still," Konoha responds quietly, a hand coming to rest on Koutarou's knee. "If it gets too much for you, you should stop. Everyone deserves a day off, even you."

After that, Konoha ignores Koutarou's tears, a small mercy on a bad day, and distracts him with gossip from the village. When he wheels Koutarou back to the residence, he claps Koutarou on the shoulder so hard that he yelps.

"Be kinder to yourself," Konoha says in lieu of goodbye. "It was nice to hear your stupid laugh again."

**

It takes a week for Konoha’s words to have any effect. A new mushishi has arrived at the residence - a man, or so Koutarou thinks until they specify that they would prefer not to be gendered, in strange clothing that Koutarou has not seen before. They take their time before being shown into the room where Koutarou writes, and he watches from behind the screen as his teacher serves them tea, fussing around them as though she isn’t quite comfortable in their presence.

Koutarou has already written two stories, today. They were both miserable, and told callously. The mushishi referred to himself as pest control, and Koutarou had bitterly wished that he had the self awareness to remove himself, if that was true. He’s not sure he can hear another murderous account, no matter how many humans this mushishi may have saved.

The stranger moves towards Koutarou’s room, and he shuffles back abruptly, crying out when the sharp movement pulls at his leg. The footsteps quicken, and the door slides open, but Koutarou is already back in place, kneeling behind a scroll of parchment with his head bowed.

“Are you alright?” The stranger’s voice is quiet; deeper than Koutarou had expected from the glimpse he had of their face, and filled with an unexpected concern. Koutarou purses his lips, unsure of what to do with the emotion.

“I’m fine,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to look up and smile. “An unfortunate side effect of my condition.”

In front of Koutarou stands a person that he can barely ascertain to be human; there is nothing about them that feels familiar. Their hair is black - the same as most people in Japan - but it seems unnaturally so, and staring at it for too long makes Koutarou feel as though he’s going to fall in, so he moves on. Their skin is dark and weathered from travels, and though one of their eyes is covered by a thick, curling fringe, the other is a bright, glowing green, and meets Koutarou’s gaze with an unnerving perceptiveness. Koutarou finds himself flushing for a reason he can’t quite pinpoint, and he clears his throat, ignoring the worry that remains in the mushishi’s stare.

“Your clothes are weird,” Koutarou tells them in an attempt to cover up his embarrassment. It’s true; they’re wearing a shirt, something which Koutarou has read about but never seen, and it’s tucked into a loose, pleated skirt. Nothing like the old fashioned dress he has seen mushishi in before. “What’s up with that.”

Behind the screen, Koutarou’s aunt and teacher squeaks, panicked.

“They’re comfortable,” the reply comes with a shrug. “I’m Akaashi. I hear you like to talk about mushi?”

“I need to,” Koutarou corrects, the words  heavy on his shoulders. He looks at Akaashi and feels exhausted; his leg is burning, and he doesn’t want to learn that this beautiful person is as murderous as the rest of them. “...But not today, sorry. You’ll have to come back another time.”

Akaashi’s visible eye widens for a moment before resuming its relaxed, lidded stare. They don’t move, and Koutarou grows irritated. Are they so desperate for a meal that they won’t respect his wishes?

“They’ll probably still feed you,” he tells them bitterly. “If you want payment, just tell my teachers a few stories and they’ll relay it to me later.”

“You don’t want to hear it firsthand?” Akaashi’s voice is soft, but it pushes unrelenting at Koutarou’s patience. His fingers tighten around the fabric of his hakama.

“I’m tired of hearing mushishi boast about killing. Take your pride somewhere else and let me rest!”

Koutarou stares, shoulders bunched and heaving after his outburst, as Akaashi regards him coolly. They smile after a moment, and Koutarou struggles to decide whether he should be outraged that they’re mocking his pain or enchanted by the way their entire face lifts with the corners of their lips.

“I don’t have that many stories about killing mushi, actually,” they say, speaking slowly as though Koutarou is a child. “So we could skip those altogether if you’d like. If you really do need rest, though, I’ll just pass them onto your guardian…”

Akaashi turns to leave, raising a casual hand over their shoulder. Koutarou’s mind is still reeling, but he knows that he can’t let them go anymore - that he has to hear, even if he’s just being tricked.

“Wait - ah,  _ shit _ !” Koutarou groans in pain when his attempt at jumping up causes a twinge in his thigh. He grips it, stumbling, and Akaashi turns immediately, moving forward to support him. A calloused hand cups Koutarou’s elbow, and he realises that no one but his aunt and Konoha have touched him for years. He shakes himself, finding his own balance and waiting until they release him. “You know I can only write about victories, right? Victories over mushi.”

“That’s what I was told,” Akaashi says, and though they look bored with the conversation Koutarou notices that they haven’t dropped their hands, ready to support him again if he needs it.

“Then how do they live?”

“You’d have to listen to what I have to say to find out.”

Akaashi is smug now, biting back a smile of satisfaction as Koutarou scans their face, infuriated and in awe. It’s obvious that they know he is intrigued - that they’ve won a night of warm accommodation and food after all.

Koutarou sits down heavily, and the pout he can’t restrain makes Akaashi laugh. It sounds like music to Koutarou’s ears - or something more natural, like wind blowing through the forest - and that only irritates Koutarou further.

“Fine,” he says, gesturing to the space in front of him and waiting until they lower themself to the floor. “Let’s hear one. After that I’ll rest.”

Koutarou makes Akaashi talk until neither of them can keep their eyes open. They burn through two candles, and after the second story Koutarou forgets all about the parchment in front of him, enthralled by the world Akaashi has painted: one where humans and mushi are able to co-exist.

“Of course there are casualties on both sides,” Akaashi says around a yawn when Koutarou voices his disbelief. “No one can save everyone. I’ve seen a lot of people - and mushi - meet tragic ends. I’d rather have that than a massacre, though - for either of us.”

“You love mushi,” Koutarou says, voice barely above a whisper. They’ve only known each other for seven hours, but the fond, sad expression on Akaashi’s face shows a feeling Koutarou is all too familiar with. “I do too.”

Akaashi shifts, opening their mouth to speak, but they’re interrupted by the harsh knock of Koutarou’s aunt. 

“Bocchan! Let the mushishi sleep, for god’s sake!”

“I don’t mind,” Akaashi calls through the screen, obviously amused, but Koutarou can see the dark circles beneath their eyes. He feels guilty - from what Akaashi has been saying, comfortable nights are rare for them, and while Koutarou will have time to recuperate from the pain writing causes his leg, Akaashi isn’t going to get another chance to sleep on a proper futon for a while.

“You should go,” Koutarou says, embarrassed that he isn’t able to contain his reluctance. “We can talk more tomorrow...if you’re able to stay?”

“That should be fine,” Akaashi tells him, and their smile at Koutarou’s delighted exclamation is impossible for him to interpret.

Akaashi stays for three days in the end, and they seem more surprised about it than Koutarou is. Most of the time they stay in Koutarou’s study, telling stories for Koutarou to transcribe, but when they catch him looking wistfully at the cherry blossoms outside the window they wheel him out and sit with him, talking about things which have nothing to do with Koutarou’s leg.

Akaashi still talks about mushi, though. Koutarou wonders if they’ve ever been able to think about anything else.

When they leave, Koutarou makes them promise to return. Akaashi seems reluctant, dodging Koutarou’s questions and telling him that they don’t often get to visit the same place twice, but eventually they relent, saying they’ll visit at the dawn of the next year, as long as they’re in the area. Koutarou is so happy he jumps for joy, and Akaashi laughs even as they move to prop Koutarou up when he loses his balance. They support Koutarou like they’ve been doing it all their life; like it’s natural, when even Konoha has to remind himself that Koutarou can’t walk sometimes. It makes Koutarou’s heart ache, and he sits out on the hill watching Akaashi’s back as they descend, so caught up in his melancholy he doesn’t notice Konoha climbing the other path.

“Auntie says you’ve got a crush,” Konoha says when he reaches him, and Koutarou jumps, whole body stiffening. He feels his cheeks warm and instinctively runs a hand through his hair, trying to hide it.

“No!” he protests, so loudly that he wonders if Akaashi can hear it at the bottom of the hill. “I made a friend, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Konoha says, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I’m the only friend you’ve ever had, Bokkun. Don’t play like making another is no big deal. What’s he like?”

“ _ They _ ,” Koutarou corrects, and lies back on the grass to tell Konoha about Akaashi. Even without his parchment, he can remember every story that they told. Konoha is far less interested in mushi, though, and instead grills Koutarou about the time they spent together which didn’t involve Koutarou’s writing.

“Usually the mushishi sit with my aunt or by themselves when they’re not telling me their stories,” Koutarou says, musing as they look out at the sunset. “Akaashi stayed with me, though. I thought I was being clingy, or they felt bad because I fell that first day, but they said that wasn’t it.”

“What was it, then?” Konoha asks, and he’s smiling, like he knows something Koutarou doesn’t.

“They wouldn’t say. They just...changed the subject, showed me a flower or something, asked me if I knew how to identify edible berries. It was nice.”

“To learn camping tricks?”

“To talk about the outside. To be taught something that wasn’t about...staying locked up here forever. They must have been told I can’t get out, that I’m always here, but Akaashi talked to me like I’d get the chance to do something else with my life.”

“Like you’ll walk again,” Konoha finishes, and Koutarou bites the inside of his cheek, his jaw set. Konoha rests his head on Koutarou’s shoulder, sighing out, and Koutarou takes a deep breath.

“When Akaashi comes back next year I’m gonna be able to bend my knee!” he shouts out over the hillside. Konoha laughs, but he doesn’t say it’s impossible, and Koutarou feels light when he’s wheeled back inside the house.

**

The new year dawns, and Koutarou grows restless. Mushishi visit, but none of them are Akaashi, and all of their stories are cold and lifeless. More often than not they bring Koutarou to tears. Konoha keeps his ear to the ground, relaying rumours he thinks might trace back to Akaashi, and Koutarou begins to lose hope.

He should have known that it’s impossible for mushishi to keep to a schedule. Akaashi arrives when the January snow has completely melted, and they’re carrying a haphazard bouquet of nirinsou. The small yellow flowers look out of place against the drab fabric of their shirt, and they proffer them towards Koutarou without comment.

“What’s this?” Koutarou asks. He doesn’t whoop or jump for joy, because he still isn’t able to bend his knee and he doesn’t want Akaashi to know how long he’s been waiting. Akaashi is late because they’ve been busy; because they haven’t paid him any mind, when he’s done nothing but think about them all year.

“An apology,” Akaashi says. “I remember my promise; actually, I arrived in the region early, but then...well, I suppose I should save it for your transcription.” 

They speak without emotion, and they aren’t quite smiling, but Koutarou hears ‘early’ and that’s all that matters to him. He grabs the flowers, letting them scatter over the floor and wrapping his arms around Akaashi. It’s clumsy and awkward, because Akaashi doesn’t relax into his hold and Koutarou can’t let go of his crutches, but he doesn’t care. He wants Akaashi to know that he’s happy to see them.

“Welcome back,” Koutarou says, the way he’d greet anyone who lived here, and he feels Akaashi sigh against his neck, closing his eyes when he feels their hands come up to rest carefully on his back. 

“...Thank you,” Akaashi says, almost like a question. Koutarou grins, pulling back and patting Akaashi on the arm with one of his crutches. 

“I’ll ask auntie to cook nanohana karashiae today. It’s still your favourite, right? You loved it last year.”

Akaashi nods quickly, and sensing their uncertainty, Koutarou hurries to sit down, discarding his crutches and gesturing in front of him.

“Don’t you need your parchment?” Akaashi asks, and Koutarou waves a hand vaguely.

“Later,” he says, rubbing his palms together when Akaashi takes a seat. “First I want to catch up. How have you been?”

They do work, eventually - Koutarou would be foolish to waste the opportunity to transcribe the only stories of defeated mushi he enjoys hearing - but it doesn’t feel like work anymore, and even the pain in Koutarou’s leg feels lessened when Akaashi shifts closer to him, asking if they can do anything to help. They can’t, but Koutarou tells them they already have.

“I haven’t done anything, though,” Akaashi says, and shakes their head when Koutarou just grins at them. “You’re very strange.”

Koutarou laughs. “A lot of people say that,” he replies easily. It’s not an insult to him anymore, and he knows Akaashi - the strangest of them all - didn’t intend it to be one. “‘S probably because I’ve been up on this hill my whole life. Grown into some queer habits, maybe.”

Akaashi snorts at the turn of phrase, regarding Koutarou the way they always do, with an expression that’s impossible to understand. Koutarou has put a thousand meanings onto Akaashi’s expression: pity, exasperation...fondness? But he will never know what the truth is, and what is just wishful thinking.

“Does it frustrate you?” Akaashi asks. They sound less measured than usual, and Koutarou thinks that they almost look surprised at their question. They bite their lip. “I’m sorry; that should be obvious.”

“It does…” Koutarou says, chewing on his sleeve. For some reason, he doesn’t want Akaashi to know of his pain and impatience. Or rather, he doesn’t want that to be the only thing Akaashi hears from him, especially when they have so little time together. He wants them both to think about the positive. “It’s not forever, though - when I’ve sealed enough mushi again I’m going to go down into the village. Maybe after that I’ll travel the whole country. I could see all the mushi you’ve told me about, and try lots of different foods! I wanna know if they have different spices in the north…”

He knows he’s being ridiculous, and he’s even playing it up a little in the hopes that it will make Akaashi laugh, but there’s no trace of the pained disbelief Konoha and his teachers wore when they first heard his ambitions. Akaashi is listening attentively, and Koutarou doesn’t know what to say next. He laughs loudly, running his fingers through the hair at the back of his head.

“I’ll probably be super old by then, though, maybe I won’t be able to eat spicy food anymore.”

“Actually, spicy food would be better for you to eat, because the flavour is stronger,” Akaashi says. “You’ll appreciate it a lot more when miso just tastes bland.”

“You think I can do it?” Koutarou says, feeling his jaw go slack. Akaashi is talking like it’s a real possibility. They could be humouring him, but they’re not the type to, which can only mean they’re taking him seriously.

“From what I’ve seen of you, you’ll be able to do anything you set your mind to,” Akaashi replies. Their rueful tone is completely at odds with the encouragement Koutarou finds in their words. “If you want to walk, you’ll walk. If you don’t walk, you’ll crawl your way across Japan until you find something so spicy you lose the feeling in your tongue.”

Koutarou laughs until his stomach hurts, and eventually Akaashi laughs with him. Koutarou memorises the sound, burning the lines of their face into his mind so that he’ll be able to see them whenever he needs to in the year that Akaashi is gone.

**

On the third year of Akaashi’s visits, they begin to open up. Until then, the stories that Akaashi has told for Kotuarou’s transcriptions have been pocket-sized dramas, almost. They’re filled with love and community, and even though they talk about the people they’ve met with a measured distance, Koutarou knows that most of this information wouldn’t be necessary to save them from the mushi, and that they’re more invested in the lives of the people they save than their paycheck would afford.

He teases them about it, and for the first time ever Koutarou gets to see Akaashi flush. It dusts their weathered cheeks a deep rose, and their fingers move to press at their knuckles - a habit Koutarou only usually sees when they’re growing restless and itching to travel.

“You want to be part of it, don’t you?” Koutarou says, stretching his legs out in front of him. It’s a difficult movement, and he has to lean on Akaashi for support, but the rest of his body appreciates the change in posture. “A community or a family or something. Why don’t you find a place to stay?”

_ Here, maybe. _ Koutarou doesn’t say, but Akaashi’s always been perceptive, and Koutarou wonders if they hear it anyway.

Akaashi tells Koutarou that as a person who attracts mushi, they will never be able to stay in one place for too long without disrupting the natural balance of things and causing harm to humans and mushi alike. They talk about their encounter with the Tokoyami, who stole all of their childhood memories including their name, and the sense of loss they carry with them; that someone important was consumed at the same time as Akaashi was, and that whoever it was, they didn’t make it back.

“But your name’s Akaashi,” Koutarou says, focusing on the one thing he’s able to process. He wants to touch Akaashi - reach out and hold their hand, or their face, or something - but somehow he knows it wouldn’t be right to. Akaashi’s fringe hides their face and they speak with the same careful monotony they use when telling any story.

“Akaashi’s my surname,” they explain. “Or at least, the surname I found at the place I think I was living...I noticed quickly that most people have a forename, too.”

“Oh,” Koutarou says, because he can’t think of anything else. Akaashi is right next to him, but they seem so small and far away. Koutarou longs to bring them closer. “You can fix that any time, though.”

“What?”

“A name is just something someone gives you, right? So you can get a new one, just like you’ve made new memories.”

Akaashi stares at Koutarou, and he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Konoha has always called him too straightforward - has he said something incredibly insensitive? Akaashi reaches out, and Koutarou tenses, bracing himself for a scolding, but suddenly they’re holding both of his hands in their own. 

Akaashi’s fingers are still calloused and worn; even more so than they were the first time they touched. They squeeze Koutarou’s palms, and Koutarou holds his breath, staring into the one green eye he can see.

“Will you give me one, then?” Akaashi asks. Spring hasn’t quite arrived on the hill yet, but Koutarou sees hundreds of flowers bloom in that moment.

“Keiji.”

**

Koutarou feels an uncontainable thrill when Konoha brings him a tale he heard from one of the merchants: of a mushishi selling magical items who goes by the name Akaashi Keiji. As special as the moment had been, Koutarou couldn’t help but feel as though Akaashi would drop the name as soon as they left - a novelty they had no need for outside of Koutarou’s home, in the same way that they can leave him behind each year.

Knowing that Keiji -  _ Keiji, _ because Koutarou knows he’s allowed to think of them as such now - has kept the name makes Koutarou believe in the possibility that Keiji thinks of him through the year, even without what will now be an obvious reminder. He thinks of them introducing themself, of them remembering Koutarou every time they hear the name on someone’s lips, and he is lightened. He feels giddy, and Konoha rips him to shreds.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, and Koutarou just laughs. Ridiculousness can’t be so bad if it makes him feel this good. “I don’t even want to know how you’re going to react when I tell you I saw them in the village this morning.”

“What!” Koutarou’s shout is so forceful he falls from his chair, and as Konoha begins to help him up, another pair of hands grip his elbows.

“You’re as exuberant as ever,” Keiji comments, and Koutarou tumbles once more, dragging both of his friends with him.

Konoha makes himself scarce soon after - Keiji intimidates him, he explains - and Keiji stays at the house for a full week this time, long enough to see the cherry blossoms bloom. Koutarou can’t believe his luck, and he feels full but at the same time like he is starving. Exposure has made him selfish; each year he wants more of the time he knows Keiji is unable to give him.

“I don’t want to taste all the spicy foods anymore,” Koutarou breaks the silence on Keiji’s last night, shivering in the cold. Normally he would never be allowed out to stargaze, but Keiji had promised his aunt they would be responsible for him and see him properly to bed. They had sounded so stiff and formal, and Koutarou had giggled, picturing himself as a maiden to be wed. “Well, I do, but that’s secondary now.”

“To walking?” Keiji asks, and Koutarou shakes his head.

“That’s secondary too,” Koutarou never thought that he would say so, but it’s the truth, and he feels no uncertainty. “I was thinking, you know, about all of the mushi you and the others bring me stories about, and how I want to see  _ all _ of them, and, well… The best way to do that would be to travel with a mushishi, right? So that’s what I wanna do. When my leg heals, I mean.”

His words hang in the air, and it feels as though the crickets are repeating them to mock him. Keiji has to understand what he means - that there’s really only one person he wants to travel with.

“Accompanying a mushishi is extremely dangerous…” Keiji says eventually, choosing each word carefully and annunciating as though their tongue is stuck. “Most of us remain alone - with good reason.”

“I’ve already suffered because of mushi, though, haven’t I?” Koutarou tries to keep his voice light as he gestures to his leg, but it’s impossible to keep from shaking. He’s never wanted anything this much in his life. “I still love them. I still want it. Besides...if I die, I think that would be okay. I’d rather die sooner with you than with a few extra years here, alone and waiting to see if you come with the spring.”

Keiji says nothing, but their hand grasps Koutarou’s with a painful grip, squeezing tighter as they inhale and exhale. Their breath mists, curling up into the night.

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” Keiji murmurs softly, and Koutarou’s smile lights up the darkness around them more than any of the stars they can see.

**

When spring comes and Keiji fails to appear, Koutarou reminds himself of the second year they met and tries to be patient. He watches the flowers blooming from the shade of a cherry tree, demanding to be wheeled out each day to scour the hillside for travellers.

The days grow longer, and the heat becomes more difficult to bear. Konoha brings him fruit and water but Koutarou refuses to sit in the cool of the house. When he wheels himself into the trunk of the tree, kicking out at it in frustration, Konoha pulls him back, alarmed.

“Bokkun, come on, this isn’t helping anyone…” he tries. “I haven’t even heard anything at the market - they’re probably just busy -”

“ _ Fuck _ if they’re busy!” Koutarou curses, slamming balled fists against the chair so hard it threatens to buckle. “They got scared, didn’t they? God, if they - if they didn’t want me to come with them, they should have just -  _ said _ something, I’m not completely unapproachable.”

“Well…” Konoha begins, and Koutarou knows he’s joking but it’s just not the time, and all he can do is yell wordlessly. His chest feels tight and all the air is escaping from his lungs. He wonders if this is what drowning feels like. “There’s another possibility, you know...I didn’t want to say it but if you’re going to blame yourself like this…”

“No,” Koutarou says firmly. He knows what Konoha is suggesting; knows that Keiji’s line of work is dangerous, and that Keiji has been in it for a long time already. They might be young for a mushishi, but most start much later, and Keiji’s surpassed the average life expectancy in terms of years passed.

Other mushishi still come to Koutarou’s door, even after his aunt passes away. Konoha moves into the house to help Koutarou pay them, and Koutarou begs each of them for news. No one has seen Keiji in two, then three, then four years. It’s unfortunate, they say, because Keiji was probably the most productive of all of them, and there’s a lot more for them to deal with, now.

Koutarou stops writing halfway through the fourth year of Keiji’s absence. No one has heard of their death, but mushi work in mysterious ways. They could be trapped somewhere, or the memory of them might have been erased. It might only be a matter of time before Koutarou forgets Keiji, too. 

The mushi in Koutarou’s leg begin to multiply again, and Koutarou stops trying to move it or hold them back. At least one of them deserves to flourish, he thinks.

Konoha is older now - older than the twenty-six years he’s supposed to be wearing - and his voice gets more weary each morning he asks Koutarou if he’s going to write. Koutarou’s answer is the same every day, dull and listless from the corner of his study:

“You should go back, Konoha. Don’t waste your life on me.”

Neither of them are expecting Konoha to throw the dish of breakfast he had made on the floor. It’s the fourth April since Keiji left, and the sound of porcelain on tatami rings like a gong. Konoha stares at the spilled porridge on the floor for a few seconds and then kicks the bowl away, looking up at Koutarou in disgust.

“It’s not a  _ waste _ , Bokkun, because I chose it. Don’t demean me like that,” he spits, and as abruptly as Konoha had snapped Koutarou realises his eyes are wet. “You’re the one who’s wasting - wasting time, wasting - yourself. You’d be walking by now if your motivation hadn’t been reduced to a single person - a person who doesn’t even  _ deserve _ you, if they won’t even visit -”

“Keiji deserves me!” Koutarou yells. Whatever has befallen them, he can’t bear to hear either of his two friends speak badly of the other. “They showed me everything - they made me  _ want _ things…” he tails off. It’s impossible to explain.

“Those things are still there, Bokkun,” Konoha says, hoarse and pleading. “You could still have them - if you’d only pick up a pen…”

“You never thought I’d be able to walk anyway,” Koutarou mumbles, staring at the floor. Konoha crosses the room, standing above him with his arms folded. They’re both crying now, and they probably look pathetic, but no one is there to see them, and no one has been for months.

“I did,” Konoha tells him, wiping angrily at his nose. “I always thought so. You can do anything you want to do.”

Koutarou wants to get Keiji back. The likelihood of that happening is as slim as him being able to heal his leg, but that’s never stopped him before. He begins to write again: if -  _ when -  _ Keiji returns, he’s never going to let them go.

**

Winter turns the hillside into a blanket of snow. The cherry trees sit bare outside Koutarou’s window, and behind them a forest of dark evergreens. Even though the black covers only half of his knee now and he can bend it with some effort, Koutarou doesn’t go outside much. The ice makes his crutches unstable, and Konoha had laughed until he cried the first time Koutarou had fallen flat on his face. Besides, he hates the cold, and inside he can sit with the mushi he has sealed.

Konoha is smiling when he brings Koutarou his dinner - soup, the only warm meal they can make between them - and it’s the kind of smile that makes Koutarou suspicious, because he only sees it when Konoha is planning something. He sniffs the air, trying to discern if the ingredients Konoha used have gone sour.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Konoha says, still blocking the doorway with his frame. He doesn’t bring the food in, and Koutarou huffs, reaching for his crutches to pull himself up.

“What, now…? I’m tired, Konoha, can’t we feed them and do this tomorrow?”

Someone speaks from behind Konoha’s figure, and Koutarou’s crutch slips out from under him. He’s barely able to catch himself, balancing precariously on one foot as his eyes go wide and jaw drops open.

“If you really do need rest, I can always pass my stories onto your guardian…” 

Konoha steps aside and Keiji raises a hand in greeting. They’ve grown broader, their hair is longer and their skin is darker but it is unmistakably Keiji, drowning in the large pack strapped to their back. They step into the room, closing the gap between them when they see Koutarou attempting to rush forward, and bow their head deeply.

“I’m sorry,” they say, face parallel to the floor. Koutarou looks at the top of their head in disbelief. He wants to grab the mess of curls, tug on it to make sure that it’s real. “I’ve been overseas. I couldn’t reach you, and I couldn’t write...but I brought back a lot more stories.”

Koutarou laughs, and then he is crying, and Keiji starts when they raise their head, sincere alarm crossing their features. Koutarou hadn’t thought anything could make Keiji uncomfortable, but apparently the sight of Koutarou, red faced and covered in snot, is enough.

“I had no idea…” Koutarou says. He means to sound angry but his sobs just sound relieved, and he tugs Keiji forward, wrapping his arms around them. “I missed you…!”

“Oh…” Keiji says, and when they finally relax in Koutarou’s hold he feels a wetness on his neck. Straining to see them without pulling away, he catches a glimpse of Keiji’s tears before his eyes begin to hurt. Over their shoulder, Konoha has left the soup on the floor, closing the screen to give them some privacy.

They stay like that for a long time, crying and wrapped up in one another. Koutarou is a loud, messy crier, but Keiji seems more uncomfortable with their own tears, silent as they are. They wipe their eyes repeatedly, mumbling soft apologies, and Koutarou just shakes his head each time, meaning to forgive them only to start crying again.

“I have so many things to tell you,” Keiji says when they’re finally calmer. Their arms fall to Koutarou’s hips, resting there like they’re at home, and Koutarou gathers his courage. He needs more than a week.

“You’d better tell me them on the move,” he tells them firmly. “We’ve wasted five years already - I want to start  _ seeing _ these things, not just hearing about them.”

Keiji steps back, looking over Koutarou’s body in wonder. “Can you…?”

“...No,” Koutarou lifts his hakama to show them his leg, still blackened at the calf and fading around the knee. He bends it, and the pain makes him feel like it’s creaking. He feels old suddenly, and vulnerable and broken. It’s one thing to be a danger to himself, but he can’t stand the idea of being a burden to Keiji. “Is that…? I know I said I’d be healed first, but...”

Keiji’s head hangs, and they bring both of their hands to their face. It’s terrifying, and the sound Keiji makes even more so, until they look up again and Koutarou realises that they’re laughing through their tears. “It’s fine, god, actually, I…” They laugh again, sliding the pack off their back and onto the floor. It lands with a thud, and Koutarou watches curiously as Keiji pulls a wooden contraption from it. They hold it in their hands, fingers clutching at the frame, and Koutarou doesn’t think he’s ever seen them so uneasy. “I met a carpenter while I was abroad, she made the most interesting things...I helped her and by way of payment I asked if she could make this -” they stumble, unfolding the contraption, and Koutarou finally realises what it is. The wheelchair stands a little smaller than his own, and when Keiji pulls a lever they’re able to fold it up again in a matter of seconds. “For...travelling, so you could be comfortable.”

“Oh my god,” Koutarou claps his hands over his mouth. It’s too much for him. Keiji hadn’t just remembered him in the years they’ve been gone; they  _ missed _ him. They went to such lengths, all because they wanted Koutarou with them as much as he wanted to be there. Even if they’re embarrassed to admit it, they  _ want _ him.

“I...I would be happy to move at your pace,” Keiji says, tugging on their fingers. “I think - I know - that all of the benefits would outweigh any risks.”

Koutarou lurches forward, and the first kiss he and Keiji share is wet and ruined by his cries, but he doesn’t care. Whether his leg is healed or not, Koutarou has everything he could want, and the future can only get brighter with Keiji by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> akaashi as a mushishi is the closest i can get to the bizarre dryad figure of them i see in my head every day.
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/deciduice) or [tumblr](http://deciduice.tumblr.com/).


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